Brian Williams: The Man Who Waited
by TheLibrary394
Summary: This is the story of how The Doctor told Brian Williams of the fate of Rory and Amelia. It's been a year since Brian last heard from his son and his son's wife and he's beginning to worry, until all of his worst fears are confirmed by a man man with a box.


It's been a year since I last heard from them; no more phone calls, post cards or visits home, it's as though they've disappeared off the face of this earth – although, knowing The Doctor, that's probably where they are.

I'm beginning to worry, I know I shouldn't, I'd trust The Doctor with my life and I know he would go to the ends of the universe to protect my Rory and his Amy, but still I worry. The last time they called they'd said he'd taken them to a planet called Raxacoricofallapatorius, and that they were on their way to New York – Rory's always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, since he was a child, I suppose that's because of the stories I used to tell him about when I lived there and of the old couple who lived on my street that used to take me to see it; I'd climb to the very top of the building and stare out at the beautiful city until the security guards asked me to leave. One day, I want to go back there, to see the places I'd loved as a child.

All of a sudden, I'm knocked from my reminiscing, literally knocked to the ground with the wind and force created from the TARDIS landing, I hear the noise, see the infamous blue box come into view, take a deep sigh and whisper to myself, "They've come home."

As the door creaks open, though, I'm not met with Amy bounding out at me, hugging me, telling me everything that's happened in the past few months in a matter of seconds; or Rory stumbling out, giving me an apologetic look for the enthusiasm of his wife. No, today I am met by The Doctor himself, wearing the most solemn expression I've ever seen on his face. He looks like he's been crying for days, his eyelids are heavy, his expression heavier, seeming to carry the weight of ten thousand souls; it is only now that I am truly afraid.

"Doctor…" I begin tentatively, unsure of how to continue - he promised he wouldn't let anything happen to them, he promised, "Doctor, where-?" I choke on my own question, my lips don't seem to want to form the words, but he knows the only question that could possibly be plaguing my mind at that very moment, knows how that question must end, and I know how he hates endings.

It seems to take him a while to collect himself, for him to be able to formulate a response, but eventually, he starts, "Brian. Brian, I can't… I don't… I… Brian I'm so, so sorry. I've broken my promise. I've broken my promise," he breaks down into broken sobs and I am unable to move, to comfort him; my whole being is numb at his words. He takes a deep breath and though he doesn't seem to want to look at me, I see him force himself to; he wants to punish himself, "Brian, how… how long since… since they told you about… about New York?"

I stay calm, I can see the pain he's in so I ignore my own, I'm a father, it's in my nature to want to protect him from my feelings, "One year and three days," I say without tone, inflection or emotion.

Despite my best efforts, this cuts him more deeply than I could possibly have imagined, "I am so, so sorry, Brian, you have no idea how sorry I am," he takes an impossibly deep breath, continues to destroy himself by keeping eye contact as he explains, "Rory and Amy, your Rory and Amy Williams, they're gone. Brian, they're gone," at that word I can't help myself, I slump to the ground, completely and irrevocably numb, he slumps beside me as he carries on, determined to make sure I understand everything, "And it's all my fault. I know it is, I know I owe you an explanation, I know I owe you far, far more than that, as I did them, I'm so, so sorry, but that's all I can offer you," in that moment he really sees me, and, for the first time, I really see him; he's in unimaginable agony, his grief runs in his blood as he stands alone, in front of me, begging for my forgiveness with his words, but never willing to believe he deserves it in his mind, so I sit watching him, I nod but the silence is unwilling to release me.

The Doctor's hand reaches out for my arm, as though to comfort me, but recoils like he's been burnt; his hands settle in his lap, balled together, the nails scratching at the skin, yet he never lets up his eye contact, he perseveres in his quest to wound himself as much as is possible, "In New York we came across the Weeping Angels, which I know you're familiar with?" he doesn't pause for any sort of reply from me, but goes on with his detailed account of the events of the angels, and Manhattan, and my granddaughter River Song, and the coffee, the hotel, the Statue of Liberty, the roof, the paradox, the graveyard, the blinking, Rory, Amy, the Last Centurion and the Girl Who Waited, the grave, the book. All the while I listen, still unable to speak, to move, even to breathe.

Rory is gone.

Amy is gone.

The Doctor is alone.

My son and his wife are long dead.

I am alone.

I sit there, unblinking, for what could be days once he has finished speaking. He apologises again and then the silence takes him too. He knows that I will speak when I'm ready, so he doesn't try to wake me from my numbness, doesn't attempt to make me feel better, doesn't ask if I'm ok; he knows enough of humanity to know that I can never be ok again. He just sits, drowning in his own inaudible torture, always looking at me, always punishing himself.

After a long time, I seem to break free; a tear rolls down my cheek and I open my mouth as if to speak but nothing comes out. I try again, determined to be strong like The Doctor; I'd always known that this day would come, that one day they would stop travelling with him, that they would eventually die; I just always thought that I would be the one to go first. My hand moves up to my cheek and I wipe my lone tear away and pull myself together, "They were happy, though, in the end. They lived long, full lives. They were together. They were happy. I don't blame you, Doctor, you have to know that. I will never blame you, and if I know my Rory and Amy, they won't have done either. They were safe. They were happy. They were together," I almost chant, as though trying to force myself to see the truth in it.

He ignores my forgiveness, won't allow himself to accept it; from his pocket he reveals a small piece of paper, folded into quarters, and hands it to me, "Rory wanted you to have this, it's from the book, it's for you."

Cautiously, I take the paper between the very tips of my thumb and forefinger, handling it as though it carries more value than anything to ever have existed, and to me, it does. Slowly I unfold it, careful not to rip the aged page, smooth it out across my knee and unconsciously begin to read it out loud:

"Dad,

I need you to know that I love you, that Amy and I had no choice, it was impossible for us to tell you who we were, it could've created another paradox, and I'm guessing The Doctor will have explained to you how dangerous that would've been by now. Don't get me wrong, we really wanted to, nearly did a few times, but we stopped ourselves. I like to think we took good care of you though, the two old people at the end of the street who took you to see the Statue of Liberty, told you stories of aliens, pirates and cowboys. That was our way of being with you, allowing you to see us grow old, to see how happy we were.

I know that you won't, but please don't blame The Doctor, and don't let him blame himself; it had to happen sometime, we had to grow old and leave him, and even though we did it in Manhattan, as oppose to Leadworth, we got to do it together.

Take care of River for us dad; make sure she doesn't get herself into too much trouble. And remember that we will love you, always.

Lots of love, Rory.

X"

Without my noticing it, realisation creeps up on me; Rory and Amy, my Rory and Amy, were the old couple who lived on my street. They were the Doctor and the journalist who took me to see the Statue of Liberty for the first time. He's right, I did get to see them grow old, I did get to spend time with them, see how happy they were together, watch them live.

"When I was younger, I lived in New York and there was this couple who lived on my street, quite old but still very much in love, I didn't think they had any children and when my parents were at work they'd babysit me. They showed me Manhattan, told me such amazing stories, let me into their lives, took care of me. Dr and Mrs Song, they were called; Roranicus and Amelianna Song. Huh, I suppose that means I named Rory after himself; I guess Melody's more like him than he thought," as I tell him about my past my tears begin to dry and my sadness fades until it's background noise, and The Doctor listens intently with the eyes of a child who's being told that things do get better, there is always a way to make things better, "The very last time I saw the Songs was the day I moved back to England and they told me something I'd never forgotten, but never fully understood, until now. They told me to remember them, to keep them in my heart as they'd keep me in theirs, and they said that no matter what happens, to never, under any circumstances, blame The Doctor, and to never let him forget what he'd done for them. At the time I'd thought they'd meant Rory, as he was a Doctor - my Rory, the best Doctor in all of Manhattan - but even though I didn't understand, it has always stayed with me, because all I ever wanted was to be like the Songs: to live long, full, happy lives and to have someone who loved me as much as they loved each other. And I did. I had them; my Rory and Amy, my children, I watched them grow old, Doctor, I was able to see that, because of you. And I will never, ever forget what you have done for us. Never."

The Doctor reaches out and this time doesn't recoil; he takes my hand, tears streaming down his face, and whispers, "Thank you, Brian Williams. If there is anything in the entire universe that I can do for you, ever, no matter where you are, just you give me a shout and there I'll be. I will never forget you, Mr Williams, father of the Last Centurion, and I am privileged to have known you."

It takes all the courage I have ever had to muster but I finally manage to ask the question that will both kill me and give me the closure I need, "There is one thing that you could do for me, Doctor. I know it might be a bit too much to ask but please, could you… could you take me there? Take me to see their… to see their grave?"

"If that's what you want, then of course, it is done," he lifts himself off the ground and steps aside to let me inside the TARDIS.

I reach for the handle and let myself inside, The Doctor following slowly behind me.


End file.
